All My Children.

Aside from the fact that my contemporaries seem to be admitting they’re partaking in the title line of this entry, the constituents of the Zook/Petty household—Zoe included—are not. However, this spring of spawning that surrounds us has forced me to consider what it might be like consume myself with the needs of another.

This week, though, I ultimately came to grips with reality.

I am my own father—or I am my own child. Somewhere in this twisted time and space, I see that I’m busy both caring for and raising myself. I’m adhering to a schedule of pre-5 a.m. running, pre-6 a.m. feeding, and pre-10 p.m. sleeping. I leave work as soon as the proverbial whistle blows, rushing off to meet the demands of my charge. I cart myself off to practice with teammates twice a week, I show up early on race day and stay late for the doling out of awards or the serving of dinners. I volunteer when I can, tend to the wounds that come from such rigorous activity, and deal with the doctor’s appointments that inevitably come up.

And clearly, I love it. The demands strain, but I find it so rewarding. I get to create joy for myself, and share in what I make. It’s tough with a schedule chock full of work and students and meetings, but we find a way to make it work.

I’m sure one day my I will outgrow my own dependence on myself. I’m sure my role will change accordingly. Sacrifices await our plight; they’re undoubtedly on the horizon as our needs and responsibilities will unfold and evolve. I’m sure the family and I will cross that bridge when it stretches out before us.

Until then, I suppose it’s more play dates on a busy calendar. And so long as everyone’s happy, we have no problem remaining selfishly satisfied.